But it had never quite worked out. Their situation wasn’t right. Or the opportunity was too risky. Or the moment was right and the opportunity was there, but there were other responsibilities to be dealt with. Who sent the first signal? Can the touch of a hand carry such a signal? She watched him in the mirror. He was kneeling in front of her. She felt the first shock of his lips on her uncovered breasts, the moment his tongue ventured tentatively against her nipple, and then felt her nipple harden under his insistent licking. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she watched his reflection pull her breast into his mouth. He sucked her breast, astonished, aroused beyond measure that the object of his lust for so long was his, and that he was possessing one breast, the other, with his mouth, claiming them with his lips, his tongue, his gentle bites to her flesh, to her nipples. She watched. Was it real? This man’s head pressing into her breasts, her hands encouraging him to suck. During a small dinner party he had pinned me against the wall in their living room. I couldn't get away from him. He had taken my face in his hands and kissed me. He grabbed my right breast through my cotton dress, found my nipple and pinched it hard. I gasped in pain, shocked at the boldness of his advance but kept silent, terrified Martha would find us. The kiss seemed to last forever. He ran his hands up and down my back, pushing his groin against my stomach and fondling my ass. When he broke off the kiss, he left me desperate and disheveled, leaning against the wall to support myself, more aroused than I cared to admit. I was a shattered mess the rest of the evening, hoping Martha would attribute my behavior to my recent loss of my husband. I avoided seeing him again, but Martha is my best friend and I knew she would be hurt if I didn't attend. It was her social event of the year. I accepted. My worries were for naught. I had a delightful time flirting at the party with men I.
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